


you have known a singular joy

by LadyVictory



Series: come fire walk with me [2]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVictory/pseuds/LadyVictory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One woman can make you fly like an eagle<br/>another can give you the strength of a lion...</p><p>////</p><p>The abominable redhead hasn’t been sleeping. You know this because she moved into the room. She spends her nights working out or reading, and her days wrapped around you, holding you close when you wake up confused – not quite remembering that you fought Mother and that Laura’s gone - as time speeds up, and suddenly you remember Mother’s hand is buried in your stomach, the sword you held sheathed in her chest, and the girl you adore turning cold behind you as you tumbled into the darkness…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN 1: I own none of the following: a) Silas University; b) any students, faculty, or lurking creatures on the grounds and campus; c) profit from those things
> 
> AN 2: Zero betas were involved in this; mistakes all on me.
> 
> AN 3a: I will never be good at summaries or titles...  
> AN 3b: Yes, the titles in this series are a Twin Peaks reference (Laura Hollis, Laura Palmer, hardy har har I am not at all clever...)

The two of you are fighting again.

It’s been a week since you came back – since the big dumb wannabe-Amazon dragged you from the jaws of death – and you don’t think it is possible to hate anyone more.

“What’s the point, Jolly Red?”

The ginger giraffe wants to run away into the sunset, and it is taking all of your patience not to knock her unconscious, if only so you can go back to napping.

She sighs, exasperated, giant’s body seeming to shrink as she curls her shoulders.

"Carmilla…” she breathes, voice brittle and worn out. “We’ve been over this.”

The bags under her eyes are deep purple and angry.

The abominable redhead hasn’t been sleeping. You know this because she moved into the room. She spends her nights working out or reading, and her days wrapped around you, holding you close when you wake up confused – not quite remembering that you fought Mother and that Laura’s gone - as time speeds up, and suddenly you remember Mother’s hand is buried in your stomach, the sword you held sheathed in her chest, and the girl you adore turning cold behind you as you tumbled into the darkness…

You usually let her hold you for a few minutes – for her sake, clearly; the freakishly tall girl worries more than the curly hair ginger, and it will kill her one day – before shaking her off. You always ignore the hurt look on her face, because really, what does she expect? You're a vampire – the apex predator – not a teddy bear, and she is at best an annoyance that makes up for her presence with a steady supply of food.

“Could you just…” she trails off, scrubbing her hands over her face.

“Yes, Agent Orange?” you snark, and it sounds lame even to your ears.

“You know I have to do this, Carmilla,” she tries again, and you hate that she has been reasonable – kind even – since you have been back. You hate the way she says your name, as if she cares. “Final grades are due at the end of the week…”

“So,” you snap as if you haven’t heard this before, and cross your arms over your chest, glowering.

“There are papers to collect and tests to grade.” She looks at you with her stupid, pretty sky blue eyes – as if you would be so weak as to give into that – pleading. “Someone has to do it, ya know?”

“Why does it have to be you?” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it.

Before she can respond you turn and flop onto the bed so you don’t have to look at her dumb, sympathetic face.

You blame your loose lips on the time of day. It’s noon (the hour of God's eye, the hour of the all seeing sun) and you are exhausted.

“Carm…” she starts, but you sniff with disinterest and wave a hand in her general direction.

You liked her better when she wanted you dead. This new attentive and considerate Danny (no, not Danny – it’s gingersnap, or jolly red, or stretch, or any of the other derisive nicknames – _never_ Danny), she makes your skin crawl (tingle) and your stomach drop (flutter).

“Whatever, beanstalk. The world nearly ended us, and you want to go grade book reports. Solid use of your fleeting life.”

You know exactly what she would look like if you were to glance over your shoulder. All sad, guilty blue eyes, blunt teeth worrying her lower lip and hands fidgeting with her bag. You glare at the blankets that you’ve pulled up around your nose.

She sighs again, full of weak human regret, but you hear the door open all the same.

This little fit you’re throwing has stopped her over half a dozen times in the past few days, but clearly she has reached her limit.

There is a pause and you can feel her eyes on you.

“I’ll be back in like, two hours, okay? Just… rest.” Then, she’s gone.

You clearly couldn’t care less about her walking across campus to the English department, except that right now you are dependent on her for food, and you are afraid the ever worsening tremors might cause something to fall over and crush her, and you’ll be screwed…

You’re a pragmatic survivor, nothing more, nothing less.

It’s been a week since you came back – since she _made_ you come back – and though you loath to admit it, the two of you have developed a routine that has kept you going. It mostly consists of you lying around, still too weak to do much more then complain and read (such a departure from your previous existence), and her forcing blood into you. From herself at first, when there was no one else to get bags and the idea of being alone sent you into swirling panic attacks the likes of which you haven’t experienced since you first clawed your way out of that damned box. Then, later, from the small supply provided by the science-ginger, who still has a few connections among the Health majors still on campus.

The red-haired Sasquatch takes care of you like she gives a shit, and you hate it.

You spend the time she is away productively staring at the ceiling and not breathing (only because you don't want her smell in your nose, and not at all for fear of hyperventilating).

 

When she gets back – exactly two hours later, just like she promised – you decide to punish her (for leaving and not dying, obviously). You turn your back on her and pile all the blankets (ALL the blankets in the room) on top of yourself.

“I brought you your mail,” she murmurs, and you feel the bed dip from her body weight.

You ignore her with a humph; as if you get mail. A paper thin excuse.

She sighs at you again – she does that a lot now, where she used to growl and snap and threaten violence. It makes her sound like a neglected puppy, which irks you to no end. If you were to be honest with yourself, you would admit that you miss her fire.

Her hand gently rests on your back through your mountain of cloth. “It’s on the end of the bed when you decide to stop being an asshole.”

You can’t help the smirk that comes to your lips. There’s a taste of the Danny Lawrence you know and abhor.

Your eyes slip closed as she rubs your back, hand worming its way under the blankets, so incredibly warm you can’t help but move into it.

 

You jerk awake silently, completely covered in blood (no, it's sweat; it’s sweat not blood), the image of Laura’s broken body burned into your eyelids. The room is dark, and you can’t understand what snapped you out of your hellish dreamscape.

There is a whimper at the desk, and you look over. Danny - Xena the Warrior Doofus, not _Danny_  - is out cold, upper half draped over the hard surface, lower body wrapped around the stool, just barely holding on.

Your sharp hunter’s eyes make out sweat on her forehead, your nose picks up the smell of salt in the air from her tears, and even your frozen, dead heart feels something like pity for the girl.

The ginger giant twitches in her sleep, groaning as her ridiculously long frame shifts on the stool.

You’re beside her before you can think better of it, lifting her up and carrying her over to the bed. You know what’s coming next – the few times she has managed to drift off in the last week have all ended the same – and you try to convince yourself you are just trying to avoid the irritation of her screaming.

She lets out a small, high pitched whine as you put her down, and curls up into a ball, body shivering despite the warmth of the room. With a long suffering sigh, which is definitely real and not for show, you slide in beside her.

She turns to you unconsciously, wrinkled forehead smoothing out when you stroke it with your fingertips.

Tears still slip down her cheeks, but she begins to relax and lies still with her arm around your waist and her head on your shoulder.

“I hate you,” you whisper, glaring down at her through the smidgen of relief that blossoms in your chest when she settles into a deeper (hopefully dreamless) sleep.

 

////

 

You rise an hour later (it’s evening and the sun is setting and you’re finally strong enough to get out of bed on your own), kicking something from the bed onto the floor. It’s a moderate sized package wrapped in generic brown parcel paper, a printed label on the front.

Inside is a hideously pink sweater with a cranky cat wearing a Santa hat. You snort in amusement, puzzled as to why the walking red wood would get you something so playful and frivolous. It's so unlike either of you…

You notice the card after a minute, and open it hesitantly, as if you know what you will find.

The note is computer print, but you see her loopy, exaggerated script anyway, and hear it read in her sweet, teasing lilt.

 

**_To the Grumpy Cat,_ **

**_Something to keep you warm while I’m away._ **

**_< 3 Laura_ **

 

Laura had planned to visit her father for the holidays, and had joked about you being unable to steal her sweaters. She must have ordered this for you before…

You are screaming at the top of your lungs – you know it even though you can’t hear anything over the sounds of Laura dying. You tear the room apart with your bare hands.

Danny - _Jolly Red_ , not _Danny_ \- is beside you, seemingly unfazed by the fact that you could rip her limb from limb without a second thought.

She pulls you away from what is left of the bureau and up into her body, lifting you clear off the floor. You squirm and struggle, but she just pulls you into her chest and whispering soothingly at you.

You hiss angrily but don’t attack. You want to – want to hurt her for being so kind, and patient, so downright gentle with you after you failed so badly – but you can’t.

The mother-ginger is at the door, worried expression on her face. You want to screech at her, scare her away with your rage, but all that comes out is a low pitched howl, like a wounded animal caught in a trap.

“It’s okay, Perry,” (it most certainly is _not_ ) the giant says, turning you in her arms so that you face her (she is impressively strong for a mortal).

You grab her shirt in your fists, but don’t seem to have the strength to do anything else. She walks with you to the bed and gently lays you down. You don’t let go of her, so that she has no choice but to lie with you.

“I’ve got her.”

You manage to hold it together until you hear the door close behind the intruder.

You sob for a small eternity and fall asleep to the Amazon murmuring encouragingly in your ears.

 

////

 

The tremors are awful, and getting worse. Jolly Red has spent the last two days trying to convince you to flee with her and the rest of the ginger squad (everyone else left campus days ago), but you want to do is lie around and listen to your Paralasis Permanente records.

After another round of her noise, which starts out as stern but once again devolves into almost pleading (she is so pathetic sometimes, like a big, dumb puppy lumbering about and begging), she retreats, taking her huge duffle bag and angrily stuffing things into it.

You ignore her, flopping over to turn up the record player, and close your eyes.

 

When you wake up – suddenly, gasping, confused about where you are – the freakishly tall girl is towering over you. You freeze, momentarily frightened that somehow Mother has returned for you, before the smell of rich damp earth and moonlight and clean sweat and sadness (unmistakably Danny) reach your nose.

Without a word she bends down and scoops you up bridal style into her arms.

“You’re coming.” Her tone is final.

You hiss angrily. “No.”

You fight her, trying to pry her arms away from you, pushing off her chest. She holds on, and you find yourself once again impressed with her strength and ashamed of your weakness.

“Carmilla,” she scolds, walking towards the door.

“No!”

You punch her in the stomach and she drops you with a ‘wuff!’

You scramble onto Laura’s bed, flattening yourself against it and glaring at her.

“Stupid… vampire,” she groans, doubled over and trying to catch her breath. She looks pale and vaguely green, and you take a small pleasure in it.

You move to cover yourself with Laura’s quilt, but it’s gone. Everything’s gone. Her quilt and sheets, her hoodies, her yellow pillow… There’s nothing left of her.

You stare at the overgrown beanstalk, mouth gaping in shock and horror. “What did you do?”

“Relax Morticia. It’s all in the car, okay?” she grumbles, rubbing her middle and rolling her eyes in irritation. “I knew you wouldn’t leave without it.”

You sit up, speechless, caught between blinding rage and an odd sort of gratitude.

She moves forward again, tentative. She looks down at the bed, at the space next to your hands.

“Carmilla, please…” she whispers, and her voice is small. Small, and so tired, and just this side of broken.

You hate that she uses your name now. Hate the way it makes your chest tight and your stomach churn.

“You have no right,” you say, wanting it to be threatening but it comes out sounding more thin and needy.

“I know.” You scowl but nod, because at least she has the decency (not that you have ever in your undead life cared about decency) to admit it. “But I won’t leave you here. She wouldn’t want me to.”

You huff at her, so completely over this heroic, white knight bullshit.

“What are you going to do about it, Xena? You can’t move me if I don’t want you to.” She grudgingly nods in agreement. “So, what if I want to stay?”

She looks right at you now, blue eyes serious and determined, but also open and earnest. She’s never looked at you like that before (it’s an expression that had been reserved for the smallest among you, and no one else).

“If you’re really going to stay, then I’m not going to leave you.” You can hear the ‘I’ve already made that mistake’ that she can’t say out loud hanging in the air. “You need that sort of control? Fine, that’s your call to make. But you’re making it for both of us.”

You know your expression is shocked; you can’t help it. “What?”

“LaF and Perry will take the car, and you and me will stay here and hope they stay out of trouble and that the world doesn’t swallow us whole.”

You stare at each other for long moments, caught in an intellectual game of chicken.

You hate that you break the silence.

You try for a sneer but only manage an eye roll and a snort. “Dr. Ginger Jekyll is a magnet for trouble.”

Danny – gingersnap, not Danny, _gingersnap_ – nods, a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

“Your call, dead girl.”

You grunt, disbelieving.

Doesn’t she understand that you are inherently a selfish creature? That you haven’t cared about anyone or anything but yourself since Ell (besides Laura, of course, but that doesn’t matter now, does it)? Doesn’t she get that you would gladly let the world collapse and watch them all expire in agony for the chance to die – to _truly_ die – all for the chance to see her again? Doesn’t she know?

Except…

Except the cupcake would not be pleased. She loved her friends, and adored this overgrown puppy in particular (and even though your jealousy is a creature onto itself, when Danny looks at you like this, you have the smallest inkling as to why Laura could care so much), and you know what she would want.

You lift your arms with a long suffering sigh, and the gargantuan girl raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously? You’re going to make me carry you?”

You arch your own eyebrow in return. “That was your plan five minutes ago.”

“Yeah, but that’s when you were acting like a misbehaving cat.”

You don’t respond verbally, affronted, flipping your hair over your shoulder and looking at her expectantly.

“Fine,” she grumbles, and reaches for you.

You smirk triumphantly, but then let out an indignant squawk as she tosses you over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry (the sound and position are horribly undignified and the complete opposite of Metal).

She chuckles (and the sound most certainly does _not_ warm your insides, at all, even if it is light and pretty and the first real laugh you have heard her utter in the months of knowing her) and pokes your thigh with her free hand as she makes her way carefully down the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You crawl over the tall girl and curl up on her, head resting on her chest, over her suddenly racing heart (you know from two weeks experience this will calm her enough to keep her from bolting awake).
> 
> Danny settles down quickly, only sniffling and jerking occasionally, arms unconsciously coming to hold you close, and you know you are in trouble.

The car breaks down just inside the borders of the town and it’s been too long for your healing body between meals. The mayor looks annoying and pompous and ripe for the picking.

You are undeniably impressed with Danny’s – _Jolly Red’s_ – strength as she hauls most of the supplies from the car on her shoulders, you tucked under one arm, and supports the science-ginger with the other. Perry follows closely with the rest of the bags, tossing rocks at the villager’s feet every once in a while to slow them down.

 

When you finally settle into the diner, the ginger giant lies sprawled across the entire seat of one of the booths, breathing strangely (stunted and short, with little hiccuping groans every minute or so). You realize that her ribs are still hurt from when she hauled you out of the Pit; you always forget how long it takes mortals to heal. They are so fragile.

The thought stops you cold, and you stare at her for long moments, jaw clenching against an odd, unnameable anxiety (it has a name, you are just so very good at ignoring thoughts you don’t want to have).

She shivers, and you dig one of Laura’s hoodies from the large duffle bag (there seems to be nothing in it that belongs to Danny herself, just you and Laura; it makes you melancholy but you shrug and move on).

You drop the hoodie on the tall girl’s head, hop up onto the table, and wait.

She seems content to suffocate under the cloth, so with a sigh you pull it down and roughly tuck it around her. She mutters ‘thanks’ and snuggles into it like an overgrown puppy. It is most certainly _not_ adorable.

She is unconscious in seconds.

You notice her splinted fingers and pull her hand onto your lap, wincing. The bones have not been set properly – not at all really – just sort of wrapped in tape and over the counter splints. They seem to not have even begun to heal.

“She did that hauling you out of that hole,” the science-ginger comments mildly from their position at the counter.

You frown but don’t respond, tentatively examining the napping girl’s hand instead.

The fingers are swollen and bruised, and it wouldn’t surprise you if Danny did the dressings herself as an afterthought instead of going to the Student Health facility or a Heath major. She is so goddamn stubborn. (You ignore the fact that even if she had wanted to, she stayed cooped up in that room so that you wouldn’t freak the hell out, and you certainly were not inclined to have anyone visit.)

You could do a better job with your eyes closed.

You have the bones reset (rebroken in one case, but now positioned properly), correctly wrapped, and splinted before she is fully aware that you even have her hand in yours. The giraffe sits up and lets out a little whimper (it absolutely does _not_ make your chest ache) and clutches her hand to her stomach. She glares at you through sleep swollen eyes for a few moments, before clearing her throat and forcing herself to relax.

“Thanks…” she grumbles.

“You’re welcome,” you say, quite pleased with yourself.

“How did you…” she trails off and indicates her injured hand.

You roll your eyes. “I _am_ over 300 years old you know. You don’t live this long without learning a thing or two.”

“About resetting bones.” She says it flatly, as if it should be a question but she wouldn’t believe the answer.

“When you spend over a century at University, you tend to diversify your knowledge base,” you reply with a haughty sniff. Really, this is getting insulting.

“Sorry if I find it weird that the vampire who acts like she couldn’t care less about anyone apparently knows enough about healing to treat my injury,” she replies, eyebrow raised, absolutely not having your bullshit. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that when you heal your body readjusts itself.”

“Interrogation – great way to show gratitude, Red,” you snap, dropping your feet back to the floor. It’s none of her business what you know or don’t know.

“Carmilla, I wasn’t trying to start a fight,” she sighs, running her good hand through her hair.

“Whatever,” you bristle, turning away. “Not just a pretty face, am I?” You toss over your shoulder.

You don’t give her time to respond, but instead wander further into the hellishly cheerful yet creepily abandoned nightmare excuse for a restaurant.

 

You are completely unsurprised to find that there is a monster haunting the establishment. Oh, she may seem seasonally jolly and homey, with her tailor-made treats and her wide smile and good cheer, but you’ve seen enough to know better.

You blame LaFon-ginger; they are always around when something goes awry (you refuse to acknowledge the fact that your actions directly caused the four of you to be trapped in the diner).

“And you, dear? What’s your favorite Christmas indulgence?” the obviously evil woman asks the not-so-jolly red giant, who frowns and shrugs, clearly uncomfortable.

You look between them thoughtfully as you nibble at your blood sausage (the best you’ve had in decades, definitely worth risking a curse for). Nothing appears in front of the tall girl, who clears her throat and squirms under the cheerful woman’s direct gaze.

“I’m good,” the overgrown carrot assures.

“Nonsense, dear. Everybody loves yummy sugary goodness.” The woman cuts a look to your plate and you give her a self satisfied shrug. “Now come, let Mama fix your favorite snack to fatten you up!”

“I’m not hungry,” the Summer sister says, but it is weak and she picks at the chipped surface in front of her like a child waiting to be scolded.

“Oh come now, my little gingerbread, it’s Christmas!”

“Not really my time of year,” she says by way of explanation, and you file that away for later (you are not overly fond of the girl’s tone or expression).

“Christmas is a time for food, family, and fun! See how your little friends are enjoying themselves?”

You notice how Jolly Red flinches at the word family. You frown now, no longer amused.

"Really, it’s, uh, fine. I’m fine,” the wannabe-Amazon stammers, looking at the table top and shrinking into herself.

“Actually, I’d like to stop eating now,” mother-ginger admits, groaning a bit.

“How many of those have you eaten?” you ask, curious (and not at all concerned).

“Entirely too many,” the science-ginger says, flat and almost disinterested despite looking a bit green around the gills.

“We just can’t seem to stop,” the curly haired girl adds around another bite of sugary, buttery confection.

The ginger squad look at the witch with slowly dawning horror.

“How do you feel about Hansel and Gretel?” the Bio major asks, swallowing hard. “Useful cautionary tale, or…”

“A horrible misrepresentation of a kind woman’s intentions,” the sinister treat monger says easily.

“Crap,” LaF deadpans.

The mirror-verse Mrs. Klaus turns back to Danny, smile getting impossibly wider.

“Now then my dear, how about some Turkish delights, or a nice big mug of hot cocoa?”

Danny looks meaningfully at you, back to her normal (whatever that is) self now that there is something tangible to fight; the two of you share an entire conversation with your eyes.

_‘Evil witch bent on eating us?”_

_‘Yup.’_

_‘Take her out?’_

_‘Thought you’d never ask.’_

 

You’ve drank your fill, and the two of you are covered in blood by the time the bitch is dead. The animated beanstalk pouts down at her shirt, and you roll your eyes and reach into the duffle bag with your clean hand (one is spotless, the other so covered in gore it looks as if you just finished performing surgery, which you have in a sense).

You pull out the first thing you find that would fit her ridiculously long frame; it’s the grumpy cat sweater. She’s already stripped off her blood splattered shirt when you realize.

 

You force yourself not to care as you hand it over. She raises an eyebrow in question as she pulls it on (you don’t miss the wince as she stretches her ribs).

“Gift from the cupcake,” you say as nonchalantly as possible. You mostly succeed at being blasé.

“Carmilla…” she says softly, in a way that makes you take a breath you don’t need, and moves to take it off. “I couldn’t.”

“You had no problem with taking her hoodies,” you snap, then stop and take a deep breath.

“But, this, it’s different. This is yours,” she insist, but stills her movements, clearly unsure.

“Just leave it on, Jolly Red.”

She looks torn, and you are annoyed at yourself for being touched by her concern. You’re still amped from the kill, and she is just trying to be… something. You’re not sure what, but despite your rocky history, you can’t find it in yourself to be cruel.

“I bet you didn’t think to go to your place for supplies, or do laundry at the dorm before our little escape from hell mountain?” Her sheepish look is confirmation enough; you feel a twinge of guilt, knowing that she stayed because of you. “That’s what I thought. It’s the only thing you packed that will fit your overgrown body that isn’t covered in blood or dirt.”

Before she can protest you shove her back gently into the booth, mindful of her injuries, and sit across from her with a stern look that would make Perry the Worrying Wonder proud.

“You look like crap, Xena. Shut up and get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

Danny the graceless giant looks ready to argue, but then just nods and slumps into an uncomfortable looking position and closes her eyes.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“A Christmas miracle,” LaFontaine comments, sliding into the booth behind yours.

They are joined by Perry, who frowns disapprovingly at them before turning a grateful look on you.

“Night,” the Summer sister mumbles, already almost gone.

“Night Buffy.” You smirk at the up turned corner of her mouth. She looks sort of precious dozing off in the sweater, if overgrown puppies in garish clothing is your thing (which it most certainly is not).

“Goodnight Danny, Carmilla” mother-ginger hums, snuggling close to her best friend.

“Night John Dear,” LaF teases, sitting properly and putting an arm around Perry. (They should really stop tap dancing around their obvious attraction and just jump each other, but you are damned if you are going to play love counselor on top of reluctant savior.)

You make it until sunrise, with a few quick patrols inside the diner, before passing out.

 

You blink awake much later (swallowing a gasp, because you’ll be damned if the others find out you are having nightmares), frowning when you notice the other side of the booth is empty.

Ignoring tweedle-dee and tweedle-science cuddled and snoring lightly in the booth behind you, you reach out with your senses. You have confirmed that the area inside and directly outside the diner is relatively secure, but knowing the ginger giant like you do, she would be the one to scare up something hostile.

 

You find Gigantor in the back, rifling through what food is left in the cold storage for provisions.

“You should be sleeping, stretch,” you chide softly.

“Why do you care?” She doesn’t really snap at you, but there is an edge to her tone that you don’t like. Especially after you graciously saved her life last night, and let her borrow your very favorite new sweater that you will never wear.

“Well screw you too, gingersnap,” you huff and turn on your heel, fully prepared to storm away dramatically. It is kind of your thing.

You think briefly about locking her in the walk-in freezer, but decide it is too much effort.

“Carmilla, wait. I... wait.” She sighs, and you graciously decide to stop.

You don’t turn around, choosing instead to flip your sleep mussed hair over your shoulder and examine your fingernails. You don’t need to see her to hear her apology.

“I’m… not very good. At apologies. Or Christmas time.”

The pain in her voice is like a living, breathing thing, and you can’t help but face her; you know that creature well.

She looks down at the floor, face flushed, mouth twitching a little like she wants to scream or maybe cry, but she won’t let herself. She grips her injured fingers tightly, squeezing and pulling on them, clearly using the pain to ground herself in the here and now – to try and not slip back _there_ , wherever and whenever there is.

You want to reach out, to stop her from hurting herself. You don’t know why, but it makes your throat tight and your stomach clench to see it.

Seeing no reason not to, you move forward, until you are standing in front of her, and touch your fingers to her worrying hands. She immediately stops, and the flush turns embarrassed, but she smiles and clears her throat.

“Some, uh, bad things… happened around this time of year. When I was little.”

“You, little? I thought you burst into existence fully grown and decked out in that awful letterman’s jacket and war paint,” you tease, snorting at the thought of Danny Lawrence as anything other than a lumbering giant.

She smiles at you, not offended (this dynamic is new and tentative and you are surprised at both of your good behavior).

“I was born smaller than average, if you can believe it,” she admits, grinning a little, and you can’t help but notice that she is kind of adorable right now, all soft around the edges and wearing your hideous (and now definitely favorite) sweater.

She looks away after a few moments, frowning and nodding her head, as if to bring herself back to task. “Anyway, sorry for snapping at you.”

“It's fine. Snapping at each other? It’s kind of what we do, carrotcake,” you assure charitably, smirking and quirking an eyebrow. You add in a wink for good measure, because you would not be you if you weren’t at least a little difficult.

Danny looks up and into your eyes, determined and earnest – that damned expression again.

“I’m trying to do better.” She takes a deep breath. “This is not a good time of year for me. Never was, even before… well, just, before. But since… But, uh, yeah, anyway, I want to do better, not just… react, ya know?”

You are uncomfortably aware that you want to know more about 'before' and 'since' and what comes inbetween.

“Why are you telling me this, Red?” you ask instead of what you really want to. “You despise me, I loathe you… Why mess with such a spectacularly unhealthy dynamic?”

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose with her good hand.

“Look, I know we traditionally don’t get along but, that, it’s been changing. Even before I… before you came back. And maybe if we, or I… I don’t know, maybe we don’t have to hate each other?” She rushes through it, peaking at you through her fingers. “Aren’t you tired of being so alone?”

Your hackles rise (you can’t help it; she is right, but it is too soon and she is not who you want to be not alone with and you are not that for her either). You sneer at her, walls you weren’t aware had fallen (you resent her for that too) slamming back into place with an almost audible bang.

“So what? If we share our sob stories, maybe we'll sing Summer songs around the campfire and suddenly become best bosom buddies? Is that your plan?” Your chuckle is cruel as you watch her flinch. “Get real, Xena.”

She looks down at her hands, mouth doing that twitch again, and you refuse to feel guilty. You absolutely refuse.

“I know your sob story. Tragic back story puppet show, remember?” she says quietly, voice mild as you please, as if she is talking to a spooked horse or a cornered animal. “And we’re both kind of short on people who care about us.”

You hate her again. You hadn’t realized you had stopped, but you certainly do now. You hate her stupid, sad face (what right does such a meaningless creature have to be so beautiful in their tragedy?), and her insufferable knowing tone (as if her short life could hold anywhere near the heartbreak that your centuries of existence do).

“And what? That’s my fault, right? If it wasn’t for me, _she_ would be alive?”

She looks at you, blue eyes fierce.

“No, you idiot. God! We both lost her to that pit! You lost your entire fucking family, Carmilla!”

“That was a long time ago,” you reply, purposefully obtuse. “I barely even remember their faces.” Liar, liar, heart on fire.

Danny the ginger fool’s face is patience and vulnerability and kindness. “That was two weeks ago, and you know that’s what I meant.”

You shrug against the tightness in your chest. “The Dean was a monster, or didn’t you know?”

A monster, and your mother, and your enemy, and for a long time the most important person in your world. Until Ell; until Laura. Even then, Mother loved you with a wildly ferocious obsession; unhealthy, of course, but vampires are nothing if not creatures of deadly and completely consuming passion.

“The Dean was a megalomaniac and your brother was a psycho, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t love them or that you aren’t allowed to mourn their death.”

You are on her in the blink of an eye, hand around her throat (you don’t squeeze hard enough to cut off the air, just to make yourself felt; there will be no bruising), your fangs out as you snarl in her face.

“You are a fucking child! You know nothing about anything!”

Her hands slide down your arms until she grips your shoulders, half pushing you away, half pulling you closer.

“My father was an alcoholic who would get drunk and beat my mother on week days, and take me and my little brother fishing and hunting on weekends. He once made me laugh so hard I peed myself in public. He gave me my first black eye because I got in between him and my mother, and he taught me how to throw a punch so no boy would do what he did to me. He tucked me into bed every night, no matter how smashed he was, and taught me to play every sport he could think of.”

Danny’s eyes are impossibly wide and too bright and a decade in the past, and you wish desperately she would stop talking – stop remembering. Despite being one of the most terrible of the creatures of the night, even you can’t stand to see this; you would kill in this moment to be able to protect her from her memories.

“Danny…” you trail off, reaching out to touch her chest, palm over her wildly beating heart (it feels like a frantic bird attempting to escape the cage of her ribs).

She flinches but continues as if you haven’t moved or spoken.

“He put my mother and I into the hospital when I was seven because he lost his job, and when I was twelve he got drunk on Christmas Eve and dressed like Santa so he could put the presents out because he knew my brother was watching and would be too old the next year to believe in that kind of thing. He left to go get more beer and my brother followed him out so he could say thank you to the reindeer, and my father didn’t see him when he backed up the truck…”

Danny focuses on you again, sucking in large gulps of air and holding her breath until she is somewhat in control again. She does that a lot, you’ve noticed, shuts away her pain like yanking a beast into a cage and slamming a door on it.

“I spent three days in that stupid, empty dorm room, watching those videos on loop. I may not know much about anything – about you – but I _do_ know something about this. About what it feels like to love and miss someone who destroyed your innocence – your life.”

That fills you with a special kind of shame, and you pull away.

"It's not the same," you say, but it comes out sounding like you mean something different than you do. It IS different, because you are a monster too - you have hurt and betrayed and killed people like her (like Laura and Ell and countless others who didn't deserve it). Your pain is real and deep and mighty, but you are not innocent.

She blows out a breath, frustration finishing the job of banishing the memories back to the past. “You are the most stubborn person I have ever met, you know that Elvira? You understand what I mean. Will you just say it, already?”

“What do you want Danny?” you ask, suddenly exhausted. “Did you want me to thank you? For dragging me back into this living hell? Should I drop to knees in gratitude?”

She looks at you, horrified.

“What? No, I -  you don’t owe me anything.”

“Then what?” You are exasperated and crushingly sad, and it is too much right now, but you don’t have the heart to write this off with an eye roll and a flippant remark.

“I just… I dunno…”

She looks so small, hunched over into herself and hugging her own sides, and you remember suddenly how incredibly young she is. A child a hundred times over compared to your experiences.

Her eyes are hopeful and yearning, but also ready to be slapped down. You’ve seen that look before, just not pointed at you.

“I’m not _her_ , Xena. I’m not optimistic and good and full of life,” you say, but you say it gently, like a reminder that you don’t want to give.

She nods

“I know, I just… I miss her. She was the first person in a long time – maybe ever really, since – that I let myself care about. That I, you know, that I was completely honest with.” You understand this completely. “And she, she cared about you. So much. She saw something you worth caring about.”

Pain flashes through your body, stunning you for a moment before filling you to the brim, fueling you like bitter blood.

“And that ended so well for her, didn’t it carrot cake?”

This is what you do. You make young, clean, good girls fall for you and then you get them killed. This is who you are; a despoiler of children, a harvester of purity and innocence. You wish she had left you in that pit to starve to death. You wish she would just shut up and die herself. You wish that she would run, save herself from you.

Because you know what is coming. She’s got that look in her eye, like she could maybe fight the devil himself for you. (Except that she already sort of has, even if it wasn’t for _you_ per se.) She has the look of the perfect sacrifice.

“She would do it again,” Danny says, pained but not angry. “And, I know I don’t know you like she did, but I – I would have taken her place if I could. For her, to save her, ya know, but also… Also for you. To spare you this.” She waves her hand in the air.

“And yourself. Having to deal with her grief over your sworn enemy wouldn’t be top of the list for you, I bet.”

She shrugs, grin sad. “Honestly at the time, yes. But now… I would rather spare you both.”

“Well that’s remarkably stupid, even for you Red,” you sneer, but the words have to make it past the thick stone of panic in your throat (panic at the thought of her dying too, panic at what she is saying, what is happening here).

She chuckles, and it is self-deprecating. You hate that it makes you feel a small pang of affection.

“Protecting the people I care about is kind of my thing, Morticia.”

“I’m not a person, you idiot child. And I certainly don’t need protection from the likes of you.” You really wish your words came out derisive and not fond. You wish you didn’t feel so exposed. “You don’t care about me, stretch. You don’t know the first thing about me – not really. Ell was a long time ago.”

She shakes her head, expression eager. “I saw you, Mircalla,” she murmurs, reaching for you.

The panic surges up and you smack her hand away (you certainly do not wince when she cringes; it was her bad hand, but you refuse to feel guilt because she should not have tried to touch you with it).

“Don’t call me that! Ever!” you hiss, a fine tremble running through your voice.

“Okay, all right,” she agrees, holding out her good hand in a placating gesture; her bad one withdraws to her chest, wrist curved protectively. “I saw you, Carmilla Karnstein.”

“You saw what I wanted you to see!” you growl, barring your teeth in a threatening smile.

She is not fooled for a second.

“ _We watched the stars whirl over seas no man had named. We saw the birth of a new world in science and philosophy and revolution. Every night was a grand ball…_ ” she whispers, eyes too bright again, but not with her own memories.

She speaks your life softly back to you as if it is a poem, as if she finds it beautiful in it's tragedy.

“Stop,” you demand quietly, jaw clenching.

Danny declines.

“ _The game started off the same. Carriage wreck, promise of shelter, fast friendship… Only this time, nothing was a lie. And when the time came to take Ell to my mother, I couldn’t bear to give her up._ ”

Every word is like a knife to your heart. You forget that you don’t need to breathe, and gasp desperately against the vice around your chest.

“Danny…”

She comes closer, unrelenting.

“ _My price for the disobedience was to watch Ell be taken away to some certain doom and to be sealed in a coffin of blood so that I may waste away my long centuries in the dark…_ ”

You can’t see through the tears in your eyes. You want to hate her, so very badly, but in this moment you can’t.

“ _Please_ … please stop.”

Her arms are warm and solid around you, and she whispers “it’s okay, it’ll be okay,” over and over into your hair.

The sweater smells like her, but also like Laura (maybe transference from the things in the duffle bag, though you can’t think straight so it doesn’t matter) and your cold dead heart shatters into a million pieces.

“I hate you,” you whisper, gripping the sweater tightly and pulling yourself impossibly closer to her, and neither of you are fooled.

“I see you, dead girl, and I am so, so sorry. And I just, I think we should--”

You cut her off with a kiss. It is hard and sharp (your fangs don’t pierce the skin of her lips, but she will be bruised) and you just want to keep her from talking – from hurting you both with memories and regrets and hopes.

She pulls back, looks at you with frightened eyes. Good. She remembers you are a thing that feeds on vulnerable little girls like her.

She reaches out and cups your cheek, and you realize that you have made a huge mistake, because there is definitely fear but it is clearly not for her life, and there is hurt and confusion, but also want and hope.

“Don’t do that unless you mean it,” she whispers, looking away, but not before you see shame flash through her eyes.

You blink, stunned. “Danny, I--”

She shakes her head, cutting you off as she pulls back, moves towards the door, giving you a wide berth as she does.

“I, uh, I need to sleep now,” she says by way of explanation, then disappears through the door.

You grip your hair in your fingers, hoping the sting will pull you out of this bizarre fever dream and back into real life, where the two of you can’t stand each other. Where you don’t have to think about her pain – about how much she really could understand what loving Mother is like – because you would much rather not care about anything ever again.

“Well, shit.”

 

When you make your way out into the main part of the diner again, Danny is legitimately asleep – her heartbeat and breathing give it away – but the mother-ginger is awake. She glares at you, no longer grateful.

“Can I help you, Mother Superior?” you snap, but it sounds tired and lackluster even to your ears.

“Be careful,” she warns, mouth stern (as if it has any other expression).

You roll your eyes, ready to unleash some tension on the curly haired girl. But then Danny begins to whimper and twitch in her sleep, and instead of replying, you just give the other booth the stink eye as you slink forward. You crawl over the tall girl and curl up on her, head resting on her chest, over her suddenly racing heart (you know from two weeks experience this will calm her enough to keep her from bolting awake).

Danny settles down quickly, only sniffling and jerking occasionally, arms unconsciously coming to hold you close, and you know you are in trouble.


End file.
